His wrist flicks and the cylinder centrifuges in a metallic blur. Another flick snaps the snub-nosed revolver into death mode. He hands me the firearm, five midnight black caverns empty like a lion's pulled teeth and one with that dull lead projectile ready to shatter bone and liquify brains.
I press the gun to my head. The cool mouth kisses my temple; I hope it's not a goodnight kiss. My pores vomit salty water and the undercooked bird churns in my guts like a cement mixer. I try to swallow but can't. A man yells at me in a foreign tongue.
How did I get here? That story's too goddamned long. Let's just say I like to dance with Death.
Finger wraps around the trigger, a python around its prey. The table is layered with currency from more countries than I can count. There's more yelling. My chest is tight. I wish I'd called my parents today.
A lighting bolt paralyzes my face and I taste the tinny brine of blood. A man with the face of a prune threatens to clock me again.
I guess there's no use in keeping them waiting. I hope today's my lucky day.